


Women in Science

by numot94 (futureplans)



Series: Twitter Drabble Giveaways [12]
Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureplans/pseuds/numot94
Summary: It’s a silly little question, of course. It’s just a young woman with a briefcase. Irene doubts anyone else will even remember her name once the conference is over. But honestly, she needs somewhere to direct her energy, and she can’t help but feel a kinship with the only other person in that room who shares her fate. Young, female and overlooked.
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Series: Twitter Drabble Giveaways [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1375318
Comments: 4
Kudos: 74





	Women in Science

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble based on the winning prompt for the Eleventh Drabble Giveaway I held on Twitter (https://twitter.com/numot94/status/1311265808304177152): wenrene + international conference + ratty briefcase

Everything is just a little bit off. The different time zone, the very rude drivers – Irene almost got run over crossing the street –, even the way the sun begins to rise over the tops of the tall buildings around her is disorienting.

Maybe that’s what’s contributing to the heavy feeling at the pit of her stomach. Maybe it’s the other way around. All she knows is she is on her way to her very first international conference, talk prepared, notes typed up and folded in her coat pocket just in case, and she is more nervous than she has ever felt.

Every sign in a language she can’t read seems to heighten her nerves, an avalanche of information that she doesn’t know how to process. She tightens her hands into fists inside the pockets of her coat, protectively holding on to her talk notes, and hurries the last few metres to the meeting point.

The project leader was supposed to come along, of course. He’d give a talk summarizing the project’s past results, she’d come in later to expand on their future goals and work plan, focusing on her own contributions. That would be fine. Scary, sure, but still fine, because at least there would be a friendly face around, and he’d be going first so that would help dispel the nerves. But he had a last-minute family thing, and Irene is a post-doc, after all. A little too old to get nervous about public speaking. So the only logical thing was to combine both talks and send her in alone.

Now here she is, alone in a foreign country, trying her best not to get lost in the 10-minute walk from her hotel to the conference site, and she is _not_ too old to get nervous, that much is clear, because her heart is slamming against her ribs as she walks inside the auditorium and is faced with a growing crowd.

She edges her way around the room to find the welcome table, scanning it for a badge with her name on it. A polite young man, probably a student of one of the organizers, offers her a goodie bag – a notebook, a pen, a map of the city – and she takes it with a smile and inward relief at not being the youngest in the room.

She might be the second youngest, though. Looking around, all she sees are men, middle-aged and older, gathered in groups that seem to indicate deep familiarity. Probably acquaintances of past conferences, or members of the same institute. Irene feels for a second like she’s been transported back to high school, urgently needing to choose which group she’ll join before friendships are too cemented and she’s shut out.

But she isn’t in high school. This is just a conference full of people she’ll probably never see again, unless they run into each other at some other conference a year or two down the road. She doesn’t need to make friends. This is fine.

She grabs a coffee from the tables of refreshments and heads to the large room where the talks will take place. It’s a wide amphitheatre, mostly empty for now as the conference attendants take their chance to network. If her supervisor were here, he’d force Irene to do it as well, introduce her to a few dozen faces she couldn’t possibly be expected to tell apart. But he isn’t, and she feels that skipping that painful step is a luxury she can allow herself. She sits down towards the back and sips her drink, grimacing at the bitterness.

With ten minutes to spare, she leans back in her seat and studies the people in the amphitheatre with her. There are a few groups that have already settled here, chatting amongst themselves. Probably the more reclusive researchers, who just want to catch up with old friends. There are also a few stragglers like herself, scattered across the room, each alone and looking at either their phone, their laptop or the tourist brochures they just got handed.

Irene counts them in her head, still fiddling with the notes inside her pocket. 22 people, of which exactly three are women and exactly zero seem anywhere close to her age.

She closes her eyes and suppresses a sigh. Yes, it shouldn’t matter, but it does, a little. It makes her feel like an intruder, like people are going to assume she’s one of the students milling around in matching t-shirts and holding microphones. Like she’s too young to know things and as soon as she gets up there, everybody will point it out, patronizingly call her “honey.”

She rubs her brow, trying to release some of the tension. She has a whole day of presentations to convince herself that everyone here is as incompetent as her – or that they’re all competent, same difference – and hopefully seeing slide after poorly-formatted slide and talk after monotone talk will do the job.

People start streaming into the room in earnest as one of the organizers walks up to the microphone and delivers the opening notes. The slides for that are already pretty crappy, and she allows herself a shaky smile before taking another sip of coffee. She really should have mixed some sugar in there, but she couldn’t find it and then she started worrying that maybe people here just don’t put sugar in coffee and she’d look like an uncultured foreigner if she hung around the coffee table too long.

The lights begin to dim. She watches the last late arrivals hurry into the room, a few coming in from the back to avoid interrupting. Among them is a young woman, younger than any of the others, probably Irene’s age. She watches her curiously, much more devoted to this mysterious new participant than to whatever the first speaker is sharing about crystalline phases in plasma.

She’s dressed about as formally as any of the other attendants, which in this case means a blazer over a t-shirt and jeans. Her hair is up, but a few strands have escaped this treatment and flutter around her neck. If she’s wearing make-up, it’s light. It’s hard to tell with the lights so low. She’s carrying a ratty old briefcase, and Irene fixates oddly on it. It just feels so out of place, somehow. But try as she might, she can’t pinpoint why.

(…)

Irene has figured out why the briefcase keeps catching her eye.

Two blocks of talks have gone by, most of them not that interesting, although one speaker had an intriguing approach to theoretical plasma accelerators. The nerves that were jittering through Irene and nearly making her drop her cup of coffee at the start have subsided enough that she even joined the nearest group conversation during the first coffee break, although she didn’t get much from it. Now people are leaving for lunch and she has managed to latch on to a cluster of theorists heading to a nice enough sandwich place.

But most importantly, she’s figured out the briefcase thing. She mulls it over as she eats, keeping just enough attention on the conversation for the occasional well-timed nod or hum.

The young woman, who conveniently disappeared before Irene could go for lunch with her instead, is nice enough, very polite, always smiling, and just a little overeager. She is exactly what someone would expect of someone at the start of her post-doc or end of her PhD. She is probably what Irene’s project leader is sitting at home fervently hoping she’ll be. Friendly, nonthreatening, a little overwhelmed.

So that’s why it’s weird that she’d bring such an old briefcase. Not just old, but honestly a little beat up. Her clothes are casual, but only as casual as anyone else’s. Irene is pretty sure she saw a guy give a talk in a hoodie, actually, so a blazer already sets the woman pretty high up on the fancy scale. She’s not going overboard, but she’s clearly dressed to impress, doing her best to give a good, clean first impression. But then why the briefcase? Is it an old favourite that she brought along for luck? The only thing she had around on short notice?

It’s a silly little question, of course. It’s just a young woman with a briefcase. Irene doubts anyone else will even remember her name once the conference is over. But honestly, she needs somewhere to direct her energy, and she can’t help but feel a kinship with the only other person in that room who shares her fate. Young, female and overlooked.

She sighs around another bite of her sandwich and nods at whatever was just said.

(…)

She sits next to the briefcase woman. It’s a bold move, but she’s got nothing to lose. She takes out her notes, looks them over like she hasn’t already memorized every line, then pulls out a notebook. She stops just shy of taking notes on the talks, because that would set the bad precedent of actually having to pay attention to them all. Instead, she taps her pen on the empty page and finally turns to her neighbour.

“Hey,” she offers in a low voice.

“Oh, uh, hi,” she receives in return, the woman a little startled but quickly covering it up with a bright smile. She sounds American, or maybe Canadian.

“It’s my first conference,” she volunteers, a little self-conscious. “You?”

“Second, actually.” The woman offers her another smile, but doesn’t elaborate. “How are you liking it so far? All you expected?”

She hums in a non-response. “It’s very casual. The slides are a little…”

“Oh, you didn’t like them? I thought the little stick man figures someone clearly drew in Paint were very charming.”

Irene suppresses a laugh. The woman is funny. Somehow she didn’t expect it. Or maybe she expected a more nervous kind of humour. “Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been Paint, everybody here has a Mac.” That one gets a laugh back, a light sound that sends little butterflies flying in her stomach. “I’m Irene, by the way.”

She reaches out a hand, the gesture a bit silly, but the woman takes it without hesitation, offering up a firm handshake. “Wendy,” she says with a smile.

Wendy turns back to the big screen where each slide is being projected and Irene lets her gaze linger on her profile for just a moment before looking too. She has no idea what is happening in the talk, but there are about twenty lines of text tightly packed into a single slide and she can’t muster up the energy to go through it all. Instead, she keeps her mind on the woman next to her – on Wendy –, wondering if that is where their short conversation will end.

“So, uh,” she suddenly hears, and perks up at once. She turns back to Wendy, trying not to be too obviously eager. “Your accent is interesting. I can’t really place it.”

“Well, I’m from Korea, but I studied in England. Just started a post-doc at York.”

“Oh, cool.” Wendy nods along with the words. Her face is half-covered in shadows, the harsh white glare of the illuminated screen falling unevenly on her profile and turning every curve into a sharp angle. “I’m from Toronto and, uh, still there. Except for when I’m in Italy listening to talks on…” She turns to the screen again. The text has been replaced by a huge two-dimensional map, cropped a little at the edges, showing no caption or axis labels. “… I want to say gradient plots?”

Irene snorts at the vague description, then pulls a loose sheet of paper out of her little welcome package. She scans the timetable, then reads out, “Preliminary results of the ITER calibration system.”

Wendy nods again, taking in the title. “Wow. Way to make the nuclear reactor of the future look boring.” Irene bites her lip, trying to keep from laughing out loud.

(…)

By the time they break for another go at the snack table, Irene has almost forgotten all about the briefcase. Wendy isn’t quite what she expected, some shy yet overeager junior researcher, ready to be seen and not heard. Instead, she’s got a biting side to her, a sharp sense of humour that Irene shares entirely. Maybe all women in academia have some hidden well of resentment.

Wendy somehow disappears as soon as she’s stepped out of the amphitheatre, and Irene heads to the coffee line feeling only slightly disappointed. Later, she stands with her warm plastic cup, picking up on the conversations from the three nearest clusters of people and deciding which to join. There’s the ITER guy, chatting to a few others about temperature measurements at plasma conditions, a few ancient-looking men discussing QGP, and finally a slightly bigger group talking about strategies for the next generation of plasma studies.

She did promise herself that no networking was required but, well, it really is the perfect opportunity to show off her project and try to attract attention. Her supervisor would never forgive her if she let that one slip by. She takes a deep breath and steps into the loose circle.

“Actually, about that-“

“Oh, is there anything wrong with the-“ a grey-haired man begins, cutting her off then stopping quite abruptly himself. He gives her a closer look, confused for a moment, then breaks into a hearty laugh. “I am sorry, sweetheart, I thought you were one of my students,” he explains, a big amused smile on his face. Irene smiles back weakly.

“Nope, I’m actually a post-doc. From York University. I’m working on-“

Once again, she is interrupted by the same man. “Oh, are you Nadir’s student? He did say he was bringing his newest, but he didn’t mention you were such a pretty girl.”

“I guess it didn’t come up,” she offers with tense politeness. Her smiled is growing more strained by the second, and she decides against making any more attempts at conversation before it slips off her face completely. With some vague excuse about custard tarts, she evades the group and slips away.

“I see you’ve met Professor Gallo,” a familiar voice sounds by her ear right as she’s picking vaguely at the spread of pastries. She settles for a tiny sausage roll, then turns around to face Wendy.

“That’s Professor Gallo?” Wendy nods. She frowns as she chews on a bite. “Isn’t he one of the organizers?”

“Yep,” Wendy replies, popping out the word. She sighs, fully empathetic, as Irene takes another bite.

“Kind of a dick, huh?”

“Oh, he’s very pleasant. If you aren’t a ‘pretty girl,’” Wendy adds with flair.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you call me pretty girl than him,” Irene says, feeling particularly bold. She hides her smirk behind another bite as the tips of Wendy’s ears go a slight pink, betraying her poker face.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wendy says simply. Irene finishes off her roll and turns back to the table to hide her own flush, reaching for whatever’s closest.

“Hey, do you want any-“

She turns back to Wendy, brandishing a shrimp puff, but the woman has vanished into the crowd. Irene sighs and pops it in her mouth.

(…)

Wendy shows up again during the last block of talks, slipping into the seat next to Irene only a few minutes into the first one. She doesn’t say much, just a quick greeting that Irene returns, then they both wordlessly watch each presentation.

It isn’t an awkward silence, but it does leave Irene on edge. It’s like something has happened that she hasn’t been told about yet, and she jitters in her seat, counting down the minutes until the first day of the conference is over.

As she expected, Wendy accompanies her out of the building, casually turning in the same direction as her and lingering by her side as, one by one, the remaining participants branch off to go to their own hotels or straight to dinner.

She is very sure that Wendy isn’t staying at the same place as her. It’s pretty out of the way, for one, and also a bit on the cheap end – all her institute could find available when they finally remembered to book things – and, mostly, she would remember seeing her around. But she doesn’t point it out, only keeps walking until Wendy gently tugs on her arm and guides inside a quiet Korean restaurant.

They take their seats at a table by the back, Irene still silently letting events unfold, and Wendy carefully sets down her briefcase on the empty seat by her side.

“So, here’s the thing,” she begins, tone light but oddly determined. “Nobody was supposed to notice me. Or, they could notice, but they weren’t supposed to remember me.”

“Everyone remembers a pretty girl,” Irene points out, instead of questioning the words themselves, or their location, or anything that has just happened. Wendy shrugs.

“Yeah, but not in a way that matters.”

It makes sense. If many people are like Professor Gallo, then most of the attendants at the conference probably think Irene is part of the organizing staff. And after her talk tomorrow, she doubts anyone will even remember her name.

“But I noticed you?” Irene asks, because that does seem to be where Wendy is headed. She nods, pretending to tug a stray strand of hair behind her ear to hide her smile.

After she’s recomposed herself, she focuses her attention back on Irene, taking a long hard look at her. Irene tries her best not to flinch away from the scrutiny. “How do you feel about Professor Gallo?”

Well that one’s easy enough to answer. “I feel that he’s a dick. So, unchanged from this afternoon.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Wendy sighs out, settling back in her seat with a huff. Irene, on the other hand, leans forward curiously. “I could tell you. But it absolutely cannot leave this room. And this isn’t some juicy academic gossip about who’s cheating on whom, either, this is serious. Deadly serious.”

That gets Irene focused fast. She shifts back, centring herself, and feels her brow furrow as she asks, “What’s going on?”

“You have to understand that I’m only telling you this because you noticed me, and if you don’t understand what happens here this week then you could get me in serious trouble,” Wendy says, enunciating the last couple of words slowly and deliberately. Irene nods her understanding, unwilling to back down. “And, I don’t know, I think I can trust you.”

“You can,” Irene replies without hesitation, because she feels the exact same way, and wouldn’t be able to tell why either.

“Yeah?”

Irene nods again. Wendy takes a deep breath and looks her straight in the eyes.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. Professor Gallo? Not just a harmless academic. He’s decided to make some cash on the side by selling his expertise to the Russians. I know, Russian bad guys, what a cliché, right?” She pauses to take a breath, rolling her eyes at the thought while Irene just waits for the rest, nearly forgetting to breathe herself. Her eyes are impossibly wide, eyebrows shooting through the roof. “He’s developed a prototype for a handheld plasma device that could cause a lot of trouble if it gets in the wrongs hands. _Explosive_ trouble. That’s where I come in,” Wendy concludes, leaning on the table with just a little too much swagger.

“Oh my God,” Irene breathes out, unable to verbalize much more.

“That’s right,” Wendy confirms with a nod, “I’m a secret operative with the Canadian government. I came here to hack into his laptop and get the plans, so our scientists can develop a counter-weapon.”

“Wow!” Irene’s head is a mess of thoughts and she can barely remember to keep her voice down at the revelation. She looks around the nearly empty room, suddenly afraid that a waitress will appear at the worst moment and overhear the secret exchange. She continues with voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Is Wendy even your real name?”

The swagger fades as Wendy opens and closes her mouth silently. Embarrassment creeps in to take its place. “…Yeah, it is. What?” she quickly adds, a bit defensive. “I panicked, okay? It’s only my second mission and you’re cute.”

Irene bites back a smile and looks down at the menus that neither of them have even glanced at yet. Wendy thinks she’s cute. Canadian _secret operative_ Wendy. Thinks she’s cute. Her hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear shyly before she even realizes what it’s doing, but she continues to avoid eye contact, gazing all around the room instead. Her eyes fall on the briefcase again.

“Wait, your briefcase! I knew it didn’t make sense!” Wendy seems startled at her outburst, but not entirely surprised by the conclusion. So Irene was right? “It’s a special agent thing, right? That’s why you have it?”

“You have a good eye. You should be a spy too,” Wendy says in confirmation. Irene pumps her fist in the air, victorious. “It’s got a special lining to cheat any detectors, and a double compartment inside. Open it one way…” Her hand reaches out to rest on the tiny locking mechanism at the top of the briefcase, but doesn’t open it. “…It’s just a regular briefcase full of papers. Open it the other…” Now her fingers shift, tap at a slightly different place, the motion small but infinitely practiced. “…And it’s a nice little suite of hacking equipment.”

Irene bounces in her seat excitedly. This is all so cool, and so entirely unexpected, and Wendy trusted her with such a secret! Well, she didn’t have many options, really, but still. She could have just avoided her, maybe, if she was really stealthy.

Not a soul has appeared in the restaurant since they stepped in. Irene takes another look around and still can’t find a waitress. Eventually, Wendy twists in her seat and manages to catch the attention of someone behind the counter.

A thought hits Irene like a flash. “So, is this like… a secret base or something? Is the restaurant just a front for you to communicate with your _handlers_ or something?”

“This?” Wendy frowns, a finger pointing up at the ceiling as if to encompass the whole room. Irene nods, all enthusiasm. “Oh. No, not really. I just wanted to have dinner with you. You said you’re Korean, right?”

(…)

The next morning, Irene is barely thinking of her talk as she makes her unhurried way to the auditorium. Apparently, all she needed to get over her nerves was to be accidentally involved in an international espionage plot. And on her very first conference!

She stifles a yawn, a little tired after her second day of early awakening, especially considering how long it took her to fall asleep. She just kept getting carried away thinking of all the exciting spying work that will be going on around her this week, wondering when Wendy will manage to sneak her equipment to Professor Gallo’s laptop. Will she try to get at it during the conference or wait until he leaves it somewhere, maybe goes out for dinner without it or drops it off at his office during the sessions he’s moderating?

Wendy is nowhere to be found when she arrives, pours herself a coffee, or settles down at an end seat to make sure she can quickly make her way to the front when it’s her turn to talk. It isn’t unexpected, since Wendy has been doing a good job of going unnoticed – by anyone but Irene, apparently –, but she hopes the woman will drop by before her talk, maybe wish her luck.

She drains her cup slowly, making it all the way through the first talk before she’s just mindlessly chewing on the plastic rim. As her time approaches, the nerves do start to come back, first just a flutter, then a vague nausea as her heart picks up speed. The second talk goes by, then the third, and she finds herself going over her notes just one more time, even though she can recite every word on every page.

She’s picking at the flakes on an egg tart, willing the ten minutes of break to last forever, when Wendy is suddenly right by her. She doesn’t flinch in surprise, because she wants to look cool in front of the spy.

“Hey,” Wendy says smoothly, reaching over her to pick up her own egg tart. “You’re talking next, right?”

Irene hums in response, still picking at her food. “After Dr. Lorenzo, yeah.” She watches slender fingers settle over hers and stop her motions. Reluctantly, she looks up to gaze into Wendy’s face.

“You’ll do great. Just picture them naked,” Wendy offers with a grin. Irene grimaces. “Okay, maybe not the ideal crowd for that, but you know. You’ve got this.”

Irene shakes her head softly, but doesn’t try to pull away. “Aren’t you the one who should be nervous?” She doesn’t elaborate, not eager to blow Wendy’s cover. Who knows who’s listening. Could there be counter-spies? She lowers her voice even more, despite the din in the room, and Wendy leans in closer. “Have you had any luck? You know, with the…”

“Not really.” Wendy’s face clouds over as she chews on her bottom lip. “He keeps it with him during all the talks, and during the breaks he always leaves it just _there_.”

With a tilt of her head that is barely noticeable to the outside observer, Wendy points out a corner of the room. There is a laptop bag, settled conspicuously on a chair. She tilts her head the other way and Irene follows her gaze to see Professor Gallo, chatting to a group of people but strategically positioned to be facing the chair.

“I’m trying to scope out his routine, see if he ever drops his guard. Maybe when he goes to the bathroom or something.”

One of the young people in the conference t-shirts steps into the break room and clears his throat, immediately achieving a certain degree of quiet. He then quickly speaks up to let them know break is ending, repeating his message twice before slipping away back to his friends.

Professor Gallo immediately begins patting his colleagues on the back and guiding them out, stopping on his way to pick up his laptop. Wendy groans. Irene quickly finishes off her snack.

“I have to go now,” she says reluctantly as the room grows emptier and emptier. Wendy nods, a little defeated, and walks her out, then promptly disappears in the other direction. Irene heads off with a shrug.

She feels the rumpled notes in her pocket and remembers her nerves all over again.

(…)

The talk goes… Well, it actually goes fine. She doesn’t forget anything, she doesn’t stumble over her words, she doesn’t struggle to answer any of the questions posed. She just talks, feeling a little like she’s watching herself from afar, then comes back to reality right as she’s given a polite round of applause and the lights from the projector stop beaming into her face.

She walks back to her seat, suddenly exhausted. Wendy is there and offers her an enthusiastic smile, along with two thumbs up, which immediately lift the fatigue from her shoulders and bring rushing in the pride of what she’s just accomplished.

Sure, it’s just a talk at a conference. It’s not exactly saving the world or anything. But it was scary and she did it, and right now she feels like she can do anything.

She drops into her seat like a dead weight, then turns just enough to be able to talk to Wendy in a low voice.

“I know what to do,” she says confidently. Wendy doesn’t seem to catch her meaning, so she raises her brows and tilts her head in the vague direction of Professor Gallo. “I’ll help.”

Wendy’s mouth tips into a horrified ‘o’, but Irene has made up her mind. She leans back and watches the next presenter, the low thrum of excitement bubbling up inside.

(…)

Wendy tries to talk her out of it, at first. They have a very animated lunch where the woman keeps trying to explain just how difficult, and dangerous, and reckless, it would be for Irene, a completely untrained civilian, to just pop in on a secret assignment and lend a hand. But she has to say it in code, because people could be listening, so she weaves a very funny story about Irene helping out a chef without proper knife training and slicing off a finger. A pair of old ladies give them an odd look when Irene finally breaks into laughter and Wendy drops off the story sullenly.

They’re still bickering over their ice cream afterwards, and it quiets down to agitated whispers when they go back to the auditorium, but Irene doesn’t give in, not even by an inch.

It’s the second afternoon block when Wendy slumps into the chair next to her, glowering at Professor Gallo’s back as he returns to his seat with laptop in tow, and mutters a defeated “Fine.”

Irene smirks, triumphant, and drops a quick kiss on Wendy’s cheek that does wonders to turn around the spy’s mood.

And then it’s the third day of the conference, and Irene is once again up before she’d like and blinking away sleep on the way to the site, except this time she’s been _briefed_ and she has an _exit strategy_ , and Wendy sounds so cool when she’s talking about her spy work.

The plan is simple, but according to Wendy, simple is best. Simple means fewer chances of someone messing up or forgetting a step. And simple typically means it’s easier to pass the whole thing off under everyone’s radar.

“Unless the simple plan is, like, just tug the laptop bag off him and run.”

“Yes. That is an example of a bad simple plan. But, you know, exception proves the rule.”

Irene nods and sips her coffee and tries her best to pretend that she’s having a nice casual conversation that isn’t about to lead to her helping someone hack into a man’s laptop.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I can still find another way,” Wendy reassures her, brow furrowed in concern. Irene feels a little faint, the whole world receding for a moment, then she takes another swig of her coffee, bitterness hitting her straight on and tugging her back to reality.

“I’m sure. This is great. If I missed my chance, I’d be kicking myself over it forever,” she replies honestly. Wendy eyes her, thoughtful.

“If you miss your chance of possibly getting embroiled in international intrigue,” she elaborates. Irene nods enthusiastically, bringing out a smile. “Okay, well, I’ll be over there and you just give me the signal when it’s time. Good luck, super spy,” she adds with a wink. Irene winks back, because she has to do something with all the excess energy running through her.

They walk away, Wendy towards the end of the room where a row of chairs sit, all empty except for Professor Gallo’s laptop bag. Irene heads the other way, weaving between conversations until she is standing right behind the target. She takes a deep breath, nods at Wendy from across the room, then reaches out to tap his shoulder.

He half-turns, too cautious to give up his line of sight. “Uh, yes?”

“It’s me,” Irene announces brightly. “Nadir’s student. You remember, the pretty girl?” Her voice is sugary sweet and she keeps her smile firmly in place as Gallo shifts a bit, not quite turned away from his bag but getting there, a patronizing look on his smiling face.

“Ah, yes, I remember! How are you enjoying the conference? Have you met many people?”

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful, you’ve done a great job organizing it.” She pauses, fumbles for something to say as he turns fully. Over his back, she sees Wendy grow instantly focused, shifting ever so casually to set down her briefcase and rummage inside.

“Thank you very much, yes, it is a lot of trouble, but thankfully many of my students volunteered to help. The world of academics could not work without nice young people like you to help with all these things, that we old scientists are too distracted to think about.”

“Right.” She nods along eagerly, pretending the comment is in any way the compliment he means it to be. She can see that he’s ready to drop the conversation and go back to his discussion of old scientist physics, so she fumbles for something to say. “I, uh, I actually, I already did my talk. It went great, everything is so well organized. Like I said. Do you remember it, by any chance? What I talked about?”

“Your project with Nadir, yes, yes,” he says vaguely, flashing her another warm fatherly smile. Wendy has slipped the corner of his bag open and weaved a few wires from her briefcase into the open space. Irene tries her best not to show the impatience on her face as the man doesn’t elaborate at all. Clearly he doesn’t remember anything.

Isn’t this supposed to be his conference? He could at least remember the basics, this is just rude.

“Yes, exactly, my project with Professor Nadir. We’re very excited about what we’ll be getting from our simulations, and we managed to get the institute’s tokamak for a few test runs, just to confirm some basic model predictions.”

Gallo nods, looking more and more like he’s chatting to his grandchild. “Ah, it is so great to see young enthusiasm. I remember my first project, how excited I was to do experimental work. These days, I see the beauty in pure theory,” he announces playfully, clearly meaning it as a jab to some colleague nearby.

As if on cue, he begins to turn to tap a friend on the arm, and Irene sidesteps smoothly to interrupt the motion. “Pure theory, huh?” she asks, voice about an octave higher than her usual pitch. “Wow, that sounds hard! Isn’t it, uh, discouraging? Never knowing if you’re right.”

That does the trick. Of course it does. Nothing like sounding very impressed but not particularly knowledgeable to get someone like Gallo to keep talking.

“Oh, it is very discouraging. The only way to be a pure theorist is to have great instincts, a lot of experience and nerves of steel!” He guffaws, along with the few people who have gathered to watch their interaction. Irene feels like she’s won five new doting but vaguely condescending grandparents.

Across the room, Wendy is biting the corner of her thumbnail, but does her best to pass it off as a sudden cough as soon as someone walks by, tense posture immediately going smooth. She’s positioned herself in just the right place to cover up the wires, and as Irene watches, she takes one final glance at the subtly flashing lights and the anxious film lifts from her face.

They’ve done it! They must have! Irene nods wordlessly, eyes back on Gallo as he relates some story of the doubts of his youth, and how he overcame them with his mother’s home cooking and a bottle of something very alcoholic, but her focus is on the blur at the corner of her vision as Wendy disconnects the bags, pulls hers away and disappears.

She gets through a few more minutes of the excruciating conversation, until another young person comes to call everyone back. Gallo seems ready to escort her to her seat, like a proper gentleman, but she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, where she finds Wendy leaning by the sink.

“Wow,” she breathes out in a murmur. She walks closer to grip the cool porcelain, let it drain some of the jitters from her frame. “That guy would not stop talking.”

That pulls a laugh out of Wendy, taken entirely by surprise.

“That’s- I mean, you’re not wrong,” she settles for, still smiling. “But it was worth it.” She brings up a hand, holding a small black USB drive that glints in the bathroom lighting. “I got it.”

Irene watches the tiny stick. It’s all there. Actual secret intelligence. Some sort of plasma weapon, commissioned by evil Russians. Wow, she thinks again, almost dizzy with it all.

“This is so cool,” she whispers, eyes wide and glittering. This is the best day of her life. She has never been this excited, not even when she was welcomed back to her thesis defence room with a ‘Congratulations, Dr. Bae.’

Wendy peels herself away from the wall and walks closer, stopping when they’re only a few inches apart. “Hey, so I probably shouldn’t do this, but…” She pauses and Irene’s heart picks up the pace. Then she’s putting away the USB drive and pulling out a slip of paper instead. “It’s not usual for the rookie to recruit, but I think you deserve a chance.”

Irene takes the paper wordlessly. She looks at it. It’s just a string of numbers, scrawled unevenly. In a corner, in rushed handwriting, is ‘call me.’ She looks up in confusion.

“Well, we couldn’t have the name of the place on the card, now could we?” Wendy explains with a wink. She lets go of the card and slips both hands in her pockets, suddenly looking a bit nervous. “It’s, uh, it’s a Commonwealth thing, so you can probably apply. We could use people with your background. I think,” she adds sheepishly. Right, still a rookie.

“So, not your number?” Irene asks cheekily. Wendy’s ears turn a lovely shade of pink again as she ruefully shakes her head.

“Just call them, yeah? They can get us in touch, anyway. The operator owes me one.”

Wendy suddenly pulls back, then turns to pick up her briefcase. In a flash, Irene realizes she isn’t staying for the rest of the conference. When Wendy turns back to face her, it’s with a regretful smile.

“Yeah, I can’t stick around,” she confirms, like she’s read Irene’s mind. She nods towards the door. “No point in showing my face any more than necessary, and Professor Gallo might have some security software we didn’t expect, realize what happened.” She tugs at the briefcase, settling its weight more comfortably as she lingers. “You should take the day off tomorrow. Go sightsee. Italy is lovely this time of year.”

Irene thinks of another two days of sitting in that darkened amphitheatre and the idea seems unbearable after all she’s been through. She feels too alive to just sit and listen.

“That sounds like a good idea.” She steps forward, closing the distance between them again. Wendy doesn’t flinch, only watches her curiously, her gaze focused again. She reaches for her unbuttoned collar, slowly enough that the woman could step away if she wanted. She doesn’t. “I should go see one of those Italian castles everybody talks about.”

“Good idea,” Wendy mumbles back.

Irene tugs lightly at the collar, tilting forward to meet Wendy half-way. The kiss tastes like chapstick and perfume, so light that she hadn’t even realized Wendy was wearing it. They stay frozen like that for a moment, then another, until Wendy finally remembers to breathe and her shaky exhale warms Irene’s cheek.

She pulls back, reluctantly, and flashes Wendy a dazzling smile. The woman returns it without hesitation and heads for the door.

“I’ll see you around, super spy,” she announces cheerfully. Irene nods, decided.

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”


End file.
